


Darkness Is On Our Side

by banshee_in_the_dark



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Mild Smut, Murder, mentions of assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banshee_in_the_dark/pseuds/banshee_in_the_dark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles pries the knife from her death grip, swipes the blood off the blade on Peter’s jacket before tucking it in the back of his slacks. He tucks her under his arm, stroking her hair and peppering kisses along her temple. They’ve killed someone, an actual person. A scumbag, but a person nonetheless. They’ll never be the same after this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness Is On Our Side

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Stydia serial killer!AU. I tried to keep the gore to a minimum but there are mentions of assault and a rather graphic description of throat slashing, so if you're grossed out by that I'd suggest you read no further.  
> I've never written something like this and I'm not 100% happy with how it turned out so if you'll please leave a comment and tell me what you thought of it I'd really appreciate it.

They say the first time is special, and Lydia agrees.

They were just kids. She had put on a pretty pink dress she’d picked with her best friend’s help, curled her strawberry blonde hair and applied her makeup carefully, all while Stiles waited for her downstairs with the perfect corsage to match her outfit and fielding the million questions her parents insisted in asking with practiced answers. The smile on his face when she finally comes down the stairs makes her heart skip a beat and he looks so handsome in dark slacks, a white shirt she knows he ironed himself and the slightly crooked tie he borrowed from his father, she has to mentally check herself and not gape. It’s a far cry from the jeans and flannels and comic t-shirts he usually wears.

Prom. It was supposed to be their perfect night. (And in hindsight, she guesses it was.)

The crush of people is suffocating in the crowded gym, so Lydia not very subtly suggests they find a more intimate spot outside. She goes while he gets them drinks. It was supposed to be only a few minutes, but it was enough to change everything. One second she’s walking down the side of the school and the next she’s pushed roughly against the brick wall, banging her head pretty badly and before she can make a sound a hand covers her mouth and part of her nose. She’s a little dazed from the blow to the head but she’s alert enough to realize she’s in danger and instinctively struggles to break free, screaming her lungs out but only muffled sounds escaping the tight confines of her assailant’s hand.

She gets a good kick in and he –whoever he is-  whelps. For one glorious moment she thinks she has a chance to escape, but that conviction is short lived as he recoils and his fist connects with her temple. Her vision goes dark and her whole body slumps, so he takes the opportunity to drag her away to edge of the woods just a couple of yards from the school, and then unceremoniously drops her on the ground, produces a knife out of nowhere and straddles her.

She fights him. For some absurd reason, she recites poetry in her head all the while. _Do not go gentle into that good night –_ she claws at his face, deep red streaks appearing on his cheeks. _Rage_ –her sandal clad feet connect with his shin. _Rage against the dying of the light_ –she twists beneath him, elbow digging in his side and stealing his breath long enough for her to get in her hands and knees and make a mad dash away.

He throws himself at her and lands on her back, knocking the breath out of her and pressing her obscenely against the cold dirt ground. His hand twists in her hair and cruelly pulls it making her scalp burn. His breath is a disgusting stench in the back of her neck.

And then he’s being pulled away from her and it’s like every sound around her is amplified. She hadn’t realized how numbed her senses were until they came back in full force, but now she hears the horrible smacking of flesh, cursing and stunted breaths. She’s almost too afraid to look –she’d like nothing better than to curl up on her side and lay there for an hour or twelve- but she forces herself to take in the sight in front of her.

She’s never seen Stiles so furious. His eyes are cold and calculating but the rest of his body shakes with uncontrollable rage as his fists plummet on the bloodied face of her attacker. She quickly loses count of how many times he’s hit him, but she gets a strange satisfaction watching the boy she loves beat to death the man that hurt her.

He comes to her after, the man lying unconscious a few feet away. He gathers her in his arms and she buries her face in his now blood splattered shirt, sobbing.

“Lydia,” he chokes out her name, his forehead coming to rest on hers as his hands gently but insistently travel her body to make sure she’s okay. “He hurt you –are you –? Tell me where it hurts,” he strokes her cheek softly, taking in the thin trail of blood spurting from her hairline, the bruise forming in her temple and the tear tracks and smudged makeup. His heartbeat was still going a mile an hour but nevertheless he feels his heart clench seeing the girl he loves so broken and hurt. “Did he--?”

“No,” she stops him before he can say the word. She doesn’t think she’s strong enough to hear it. “You made it just in ti-time.” Her voice breaks as a soul-wrenching sob escapes her, a sheet of tears obscuring her vision.

“We have to call the cops,” she says after a while, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Your dad--”

Stiles ducks his head, shaking it. “Lydia, that’s Peter Hale,” he says curtly. Seeing she doesn’t quite grasp his meaning, he takes a deep, even breath, pulling himself together. “He’s tight with the mayor. A couple of months back a girl came to the station and pressed charges against him for raping her. His DNA was all over her,” Lydia winced and averted her eyes. She was so close to being that girl… “My dad was ready to hand him over to the prosecutor but then the mayor butt in and made it abundantly clear his buddy was off limits.”

Despite the soft tone of his voice, Lydia saw the coldness in Stiles’ eyes under lowered eyebrows, the hard set of his jaw and his clenched fists on his sides. He was practically seething. He looked even more ruthless and dangerous now than when he was beating Peter Hale to a bloody pulp. Oddly, it made her feel better. Safer. Loved.

She reached out and brought his hands to her lips, kissing the split and bruised knuckles until the tension in them melted away.

Stiles allowed himself a moment to enjoy her touch, warmth spreading through him, making his skin tingle, before he continued. “If we call the cops it’ll just be another case of he said/she said. It’ll go nowhere and Hale will probably press charges against me for assault and I can guarantee you _those_ won’t be going away.”

“But you were defending me!” she protested hotly.

“That’s not how they’ll spin it.”

She shakes her head in disbelief, glaring at the unconscious man sprawled on the ground a few feet away from them. “No,” she says finally, a new resolve lending her a strength she never knew she possessed. “ _No_. We can’t let him get away with it. He’ll only end up doing it again,” Lydia states, jutting her chin up.

Stiles nods. His brow furrows as deft fingers delicately brush a strand of hair off her face. “I know. It’ll be our fault if he hurts someone else.”

Lydia steps even closer to him, burying her face against his neck and breathing him in. “But if we’re going to do this,” he murmurs directly in her hear, sending chills trailing down her spine. “We’re gonna do it together.”

She’s never loved him more.

As one, they approach the limp form that is Peter Hale. The shadows dance around them and the sounds of the woods mute in reverence. The blade is cold to touch when Lydia picks it up from the ground, but it’s a comforting feeling.

“How should we do it?” she asks, hesitatingly offering the knife to Stiles.

He takes it and carefully runs his thumb on the edge, testing the sharpness. “No stabbing. That’ll take forever.”

They kneel down side by side, contemplating their options. “We could slit his throat,” Lydia tentatively touches Peter’s throat finding his pulse strong and steady. “Here’s the aorta,” she points out clinically. “If we cut it open upside down rather than across it he’ll bleed out in seconds.”

Stiles licks his lips as he looks at her. He’s oddly turned on by the way Lydia is so coolly and analytically approaching the situation, but he doesn’t have time to explore that new development right now, so he just files away the information for later when he can delve into it at leisure.

“Okay, yeah,” he agrees easily, tapping his fingers against his knee as his eyes dart around them carefully inspects their surroundings. “We can’t do it there though. We’re too close to the school and someone might suspect something if they come across a giant pool of blood.”

He jumps back on his feet and wipes his sweaty hands on his slacks before offering her a hand up, like the gentleman he is. “Help me drag him deeper into the woods.”

And so they go, Stiles holding Peter up under his arms and Lydia his legs, avoiding the most frequented trails. They look ridiculous really. They break in a sweat unfathomably fast considering it’s one the coldest nights of the year, with beads gathering in their foreheads and down their backs, seeping into their clothes and cooling as quickly as they come out. At one point, Stiles unknowingly steps into a hole in the ground, loses his footing and drops Peter, arms flailing about in an effort to regain his balance. Peter’s head hits the ground with a sickening thud. He groans and for a moment Stiles and Lydia are paralyzed, hoping he won’t wake up. His eyelids flutter and a whimper escapes him as he tentatively moves his head about.

Without hesitating, Lydia grabs the largest rock in her vicinity –it’s decently big, the size of her open palm and quite heavy- and bashes it against Peter’s head with a loud thump. He stops moving right away.

They wait for a couple of beats, alternating between giving each other identical deer-in-the-headlights looks and looking down at Peter, making sure he’s out.

“I think we’re good to go,” Lydia finally says.

“Yep.”

At last they find the perfect spot. It’s way off the beaten path, the vegetation is so thick and the trees grow so close together they can’t carry Peter between the two of them and instead Stiles just drags him a few feet off until he drops him behind the cover of a rock formation. He assures her this location is heavily populated by coyotes, so with any luck they’ll munch on what’s left of Peter after they’re through with him, effectively getting rid of the body for them.

When it’s time to do _it_ , they have an unspoken conversation to decide who should do the actual throat slitting. Lydia’s knowledge of anatomy is far more extensive than Stiles’ and it’s important that the cut is precise, so she takes a big calming breath and takes the knife when Stiles stoically offers it to her.

She goes about it in a logical, clinical manner. She presses her fingers against the clammy skin of Peter’s neck and feels for the aorta, locates it and proficiently buries the double edged end of the blade on the soft flesh, then brings it downwards slicing open his throat. The blood pools on the gaping wound and bubbles a bit before trickling down the sides of his neck and soaking the ground around him. He shivers involuntarily but just like Lydia predicted, he’s completely gone in mere seconds.

Stiles pries the knife from her death grip, swipes the blood off the blade on Peter’s jacket before tucking it in the back of his slacks. He tucks her under his arm, stroking her hair and peppering kisses along her temple. They’ve killed someone, an actual person. A _scumbag_ , but a person nonetheless. They’ll never be the same after this.

“It was easier than I thought,” she admits, throat dry. “Killing someone.”

“I love you, you know that.” Stiles says, his voice thick with emotion. It’s a statement, not phrased as a question and she wouldn’t take it as one anyway, not after this. The depth of Stiles’ love for her, the lengths he’d go for her, can only ever be matched by her feelings for him. “Especially now.”

Lydia leans forward and captures his mouth in a soft, breathless kiss. His hands move down her back, settling on her waist, running the pad of his thumbs lightly on her ribcage just under her breasts. He licks lightly at the seam of her lips, wordlessly asking for entrance until she opens for him, biting back a moan as the kiss turns hungry.

She reaches up and holds on to his shoulders, feeling the lean, hard muscle under his shirt, wishing she could rip it off and feel his warmth against her skin. Stiles seems to understand her need. He presses closer, his hand moving upwards and settling on her shoulder, long fingers whispering maddeningly against his skin as he captures the strap of her dress and slowly pushes it down her arm. He places a last gentle kiss on her lips and moves down to her neck, stroking her long hair out of the way, nuzzling the sensitive arch of her throat.

His hot breath against her skin makes Lydia shiver helplessly in his arms. With their raw need growing exponentially, you’d think they’d never been together, but the truth was she and Stiles had had intercourse in the past many, many times. Yet it felt different now. It felt… right.

Her eyes flutter to the dead body laying two feet away from them, satisfaction coiling inside her at the knowledge that he couldn’t hurt anyone any more.

Stiles cups her left breast and teases her nipple slowly, torturing the tight peak until she cries out. How could she _not_ want him this badly after he’s given her this moment?

With pleasure quickly escalating and pooling low in her belly, Lydia pulls Stiles on top of her and ignores the small aches in her back and arms from where Peter bruised her. He settles between her legs, thrusting sensually and growling approvingly when she arches her back and juts her hips up to meet him readily.

They take their time.

After, he makes her beat him with his baseball bat, insisting that if they’re going to get away with murder they need to cover all their bases and what better way to explain the bruises that litter her face and arms than faking a car crash? So she hits him across the head and chest (she might’ve given him a minor concussion and cracked a rib or two but he told her to _mean_ it), he cuts his breaks trying to make it look like they snapped and finally drives his jeep straight into a large tree while she waits patiently by the side of the road, keeping an eye out and praying he doesn’t actually hurt himself.

They call his dad, they’re rushed to the hospital to make sure nothing’s broken and they finish the night being lectured by both parental units on the dangers of reckless driving.

Peter Hale’s body is never found and Stiles and Lydia go on with their lives with no one the wiser.

(The ones that follow, the UCLA roofie rapist, the music teacher with the secret stash of kiddie porn, and the park strangler are never found either.)

 


End file.
